Page 30 of Blackwicket
A swarm of fury gathered in my spine as he entered the hall. “You can’t place me under house arrest.”
Uninterested in my outrage, he ignored me and I was forced to follow him.
“You havenocause!” I said.
I’d no previous intention of going anywhere until he’d stripped me of the choice, and I couldn’t tolerate it. The Inspector stopped abruptly, and I narrowly avoided an impact with him. He turned only enough to look at me, but I retreated a hasty step to keep our arms from brushing, knowing I looked like a startled cat.
“House arrest involves phone calls I can’t make and paperwork I don’t want to fill out,” he said, as if he wereexplaining something complex to a simpleton. “If you’re dead set on debating this and forcing me to suffer the trouble, I’d prefer making an official arrest and taking you back to Devin, Ms. Blackwicket.”
Indignation inspired violent impulses I couldn’t indulge in. Satisfied by my loss for words, he returned to retrieving his coat.
“You’re a goddamn bully, Harrow,” I grated.
“I use my faults to my advantage, something you’re quite good at doing yourself.” He snatched his overcoat from the rack and donned it with a sharp motion, the fabric snapping, betraying his calm exterior. He was irritated. Good. It was a small, meaningless victory, but a victory, nonetheless.
“I’ll be gone all day, well into the night,” he said. “Savor the privacy and rest easy knowing you’re free to enjoy in as many spontaneous wardrobe changes as you’d like.”
He’d seen me.
My flush was now muddled with something beyond rage as the Inspector left me to deal with my humiliation alone.
Chapter Twelve
Still fuming, I marched to the kitchen, eager to find out what discovery the Inspector’s snooping led to. I sensed it would cut deeply, but still approached the guillotine with a determined disregard for my own emotional well-being.
The kitchen was tucked near the stair landing, marked by a door that swung in both directions to allow coming and going when arms were full. In my furor, I pressed too hard, and the door flew inward, hitting a counter on the other side and clattering glassware. Immediately, I could see what inspired Inspector Harrow’s question. It was impossible to miss.
Jars crowded every surface, filled to the brim with jam, black in the low glow of daylight bleeding through the single window’s muslin curtains. I reached for the light switch without looking and flipped it on, the brass pendants coming to life overhead, uncovering the scope of the chaos. Pots and pans filled the deep copper sink, covered in a gelatinous goo, reminding me too well of Ms. Rosley. But instead of green, the mess shone with undertones of purpling red, deep as wine. Fiona had been making blackberry jam, just as our mother had done.
Isolde Blackwicket had become a zealous baker in the years following my shameful mistake. Using the spoils of our magic-fed garden, she’d gone through the motions of feeding guests we didn’t have. Uneaten pies, cakes, and scones moldered on the counters, inviting flies and other unholy bugs to feast. But herfavorite thing to make had been blackberry jam. Fiona and I had taken to bringing the jam jars and porcelain baking dishes to the cliffside, dumping the contents onto the water-bullied rocks below. We’d sneak them inside, wash and return them to the cabinets for our mother to use again. She’d never commented on the disappearance of food or the reappearance of bakeware.
Entering felt as though I’d walked into a wall of spiderwebs, thick with winged creatures struggling to free themselves. The buzzing energy snatched at my clothes and hair, an invisible swarm not yet compelled to take the forms that had plagued my childhood. Ones that had hidden beneath beds, in gloomy corners, and behind wardrobe doors. I knew the house had saved this particular display for me. If the Inspector had experienced this thrum of tainted power, he’d have already done what he was so well known for—torn the magic free one horrible strip at a time.
I investigated the sink, crowded with the work Fiona had been doing before she’d died. The sweet, festering fragrance of fruit was revolting and explained the smell upstairs. The scent must have permeated the pipes.
The story I’d been told of a reclusive woman my sister had become was at odds with this scene, unless she’d too begun a slow descent into madness. These fragments of my sister’s life, the half-finished chores, the childhood confections arranged for some unknown purpose, weighed heavy on my heart.
I turned on the faucet, waited for steam to billow, then shoved my hands under the hot current. The biting pain grounded me, and I closed my eyes against it. When my senses adjusted, the sting decreasing, I scrubbed the pots clean with vicious intensity, rejecting my grief in favor of anger. I was mad at Fiona for letting things get this far, angry at her stubborn will to hold on to this house with both fists. Twice a year, I’d sent a letter with a set hour and destination, but she’d never shown.Not until a month before her death when she’d arrived at my suggested meeting place, the cafe in Devin, and told me to leave her alone.
Fiona kept our room the same, displayed photos of us together. But she’d ignored me for years, then dismissed me as though I were an annoying dog yapping at her skirts for attention. Why was I here for a sister who hadn’t wanted me?
I lifted the pot I was washing and slammed it violently into the basin, then grabbed hold of the sink’s edge and screamed. I screamed until my stomach muscles cramped, the effort tearless, meant to unburden me of the building strain of this nightmare. The life I’d built for myself hadn’t been perfect. In fact, it had been the barest of lives deprived of identity, honesty, and earnest love, but I’d been safe from all of this.
Inhaling raggedly, I watched the suds and berry residue wash away before shutting off the water. I pressed the back of my wet hand to my forehead, trying to calm my jack rabbiting heart, while admitting I was lying to myself.
I’d missed using my magic, detested hiding it, collecting curses only for them to suffer in perpetuity, me along with them. All the while, I’d feigned enthusiasm for a mind-numbing occupation, a lukewarm lover, and a future of straining under the burden of my lies. Fiona appeared to have lived her life just as she was.
And it killed her.
Sick of my thoughts, I made to abandon the kitchen, but was stopped in my tracks as I turned, my way blocked by a curse hanging inches from my face. It was a tumorous thing, floating suspended on the stringy lines of its shadow that trailed to the ceiling. Its miasma seeped outward, becoming scarlet mist. This Drudge was less formed than I’d expected something from Blackwicket House to be. Once, I wouldn’t have been afraid, used to Drudge appearing with no apparent purpose other thanto exist and to remind us to give to them. But I’d been gone such a long time. Familiarity was no longer my shield, and the house and I were not getting along.
The Drudge’s countenance was underdeveloped, sagging pockets in place of features trying to form. The edges of its polluted magic rippled, the tendrils extending, patting my cheek, cold and fluttering. It didn’t appear to be searching for a meal, driven more by curiosity than hunger.
“I’m not her,” I whispered.
It reeled away, startled, grabbing hold of a thread of my magic as it went, plucking it away, resulting in more than physical pain. I yelped and the Drudge dissolved, racing across the ceiling to descend the wall where it merged with a much larger monster peeking in from around the kitchen door. Only a mere portion of it was visible—the top of a head, grim magic hanging lank as strands of hair around a humanoid . As I laid eyes on it, the thing retreated as quick as a gasp.
Auntie.
